The Queer Issue

Homo History

Queer Issue 2006

Pride Events

Divorced From Reality

Pride 2006 Events Calendar

The Queer Issue

Queer Issue 2013

The Queer Issue

Ban Heterosexual Complacency

Gay Bathhouse

100,000 BC-1968

Gay Bars


What I know About...

The Delicate Art of Not Giving a Fuck

Having My Cake and Eating It Too


Amend It to End It


Public Sex

In a 'Star Trek' Outfit

Learning the Ropes


The Fag-Hag Emancipation Act of 2006


You Go, Gays


Diva Worship

On a Deadline

Marry Me a Little

I nervously peeled off my jeans in the locker room of Seattle's only women's bathhouse, half expecting to be jumped by lusty lesbians. The Hot House, a women-only spa ("Good clean fun for girls!" the ad promised), is in a basement under the Wildrose, a popular lesbian hangout. Getting undressed, I couldn't help but think of all the sordid tales I'd heard about men's bathhouses....

To prepare, I plucked, shaved, exfoliated, and moisturized myself within an inch of my life. It wasn't because I was vain. I fussed and primped because I am, like most straight women, more concerned about other women seeing me naked than I am about guys seeing me naked. We straight ladies seem to derive deep satisfaction from making our fellow "sisters" feel like lumpy, unattractive sacks of shit. At a lesbian bathhouse, of course, I thought I would encounter not only the usual female scrutiny but I might also get checked out like a piece of veal. Were lesbians going to hit on me? Did I look bloated? Did I have the right kind of nipples?

I stepped into the bath. Herbal steam wafted through the air. Women lounged around in twos and threes, chattering in low voices. With the exception of one grumpy dyke who glared disapprovingly at my neatly trimmed pubic hair, every other woman seemed friendly; everyone was courteous, uninhibited, and (yay!) very, very hairy. Girls were slouching around like overfed cats, confident and nonchalant: pot bellies, jiggly thighs, taut stomachs, wide hips, bulky calves--I saw every size and shape imaginable. But nothing was happening.

"This is a social space, but it's not intended as a pick-up joint," part-owner Julio LaFleur reassured me with an amused grin when I pressed her for Hot House dirt. "Sure, women meet other women here, and sometimes that [has resulted in] dating. But no one gets hit on here. It's just not a sex club, like men's bathhouses are."

I left Hot House feeling silly for thinking I was going to be mauled by sweaty dykes. I also left feeling ridiculous for having put my "beauty armor" on for nothing. But most importantly, I left feeling virtuous, blissful, and clean.

Min Liao is a heterosexual.